


Black Scars and Red Marks

by helenamanniing



Category: Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: Chloe-centric - Freeform, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3137363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenamanniing/pseuds/helenamanniing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"AU in which every time a person falls in love, a red line like a tally mark appears on their wrist. And the tally marks turn black when their love is requited. Imagine the tally marks turning into scars when their loved one dies."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Scars and Red Marks

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this post: http://sulkybbarnes.tumblr.com/post/100008896397/oddbagel-jaxtellerhelps-tuckedshirts
> 
> Didn't proofread bc I'm lazy af

I learn the truth about the tally marks was when I’m 7. Seven years old and way too young to see my father flinch at the sudden pain in his lower arm. Too innocent to see him slowly roll up his sleeve and look at the single black tally mark-shaped scar on his arm next to the very few red ones. The first time I learn about the pain of lost love is when I see my father’s eyes fill up with tears in a hospital full of people where we’ve spent most of our time for three months.

“I’m sorry, Chloe.” My father rasps and I crawl into his lap, too tired and too confused to cry. The crying comes later. When I get home and only truly grasp that my mother is _gone_. And my father has the mark on his arm to prove it. To show every single person on the planet that he has loved and he has _lost_. And it doesn’t matter that she loved him back, because all that’s left of her now is one single black scar on my dad’s arm that will never go away.

***

My father starts dating about a year later, but sooner or later every woman would look at their arms and see the red mark. And they would look again and again, no doubt hoping it’d turn black. But none of them ever did. And my father’s arms never got any new marks. Every time one of the women dumped him he’d come home and I’d cuddle up to him in his too-big bed and he would tell me that he didn’t need anyone else if he had me.

I would sing to him until he fell asleep and then I would whisper, with no one but the darkness of my father’s bedroom to hear it,

“I don’t need anyone else either.”

***

 “Is something wrong with me?” I ask him when I’m 15 and crying into his shoulder on the night of prom with empty arms. All of my friends have at least one. Some of them have several. Very few have black ones.

I have none.

“Of course not, honey.” My dad says, rubbing my back. And he sings even though it’s terrible to listen to and I laugh until we’re both tired. And then he says,

“I love you.”

And I say,

“I love you, too.” And add ‘and I don’t need anyone else.’ In my head.

***

The first time someone accuses me of keeping myself from falling in love, I’m 17. I have long gotten over the shock of not being like my friends and have actually started being relieved at the lack of red marks on my arm. And then someone tells me I’m doing it to myself.

“You do this to yourself, you know.” The guy says, a red mark for me on his arm and tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” I say again, even though I’ve said it before and I really have nothing to apologize for.

“You build this wall between you and everyone around you and that’s the reason you don’t have any marks on your arm.” It’s stupid, really. He’s just hurt and sad and I know I shouldn’t take him seriously.

Except that’s maybe it’s true.

But I push that thought away and just say,

“I’m sorry.” Again.

***

It turns out I have to say I’m sorry a lot more over the few years that follow. And it turns out that there are a lot more people that tell me I push people away, too. Somehow that’s not the worst.

The worst is Aubrey. Who I meet in college and who becomes my best friend and who I love more than anything in the world and who eventually tells me,

“You’re lucky, you know.”

We’re 22 and laying in my tiny bed and I see the way Aubrey looks at my arms with envy in her eyes. Aubrey, with her arms covered in red marks. I’m the only one that gets to see her arms. She covers them up at all times until she comes home and every few months she’ll crawl into my bed and show me a new one and she’ll tell me about him. And then another few months later when the mark is still red and she’ll fall back into my bed, with tears instead of excited words this time. And she’ll cry and the 5th time this happens, two years after we met, she tells me that I’m lucky.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I say. Aubrey scoffs in that way she does when she’s uncomfortable.

“You don’t fall in love. You’re lucky.” It hurts, kind of. Not because I think she’s wrong, because she’s probably not. It hurts, because I feel like she’s accusing me of something.

“I’ve seen what love can do to people.” I say and I think of my dad, who would cry over my mom even now. Who wouldn’t fall in love with anyone else, but who would trace over the small black scar on his arm whenever he was nervous because he somehow still got comfort out of it. My father, who loved so dearly and so deeply that he didn’t know what to do with himself now that it was gone.

And I think of Aubrey—which is logical, considering she’s right next to me—who falls in love too easily with boys that don’t want to love her back. Who looks at the red marks on her arms, hoping for one of them to turn black and who thinks that I’m lucky for not falling in love at all.

And I’ve seen what love can do and I realize that maybe I am lucky.

***

Beca Mitchell’s arms are nearly as empty as mine. It’s the first thing I notice, which is strange considering I like to think I’m not as obsessed with the tally marks as some other people. But somehow when I meet Beca Mitchell my eyes instantly gravitate towards her arm, clean except for one tiny little black scar. There are no red ones. Nothing, except that one scar.

“Who’s that for?” I ask two weeks after the auditions. Beca just raises her eyebrows and smirks like I just said something amusing instead of asking about her lost love. She looks around the quad and places her hands on the grass beneath us, leaning back a little.

“Don’t you know it’s considered rude to ask someone about their tally mark-scars?” Beca asks, smirk still playing around her lips. I smile back at her, broadly and genuinely. The kind of smile that would _usually_ make everyone do what I asked them to do.

“I do know. Now who’s it for?” Beca raises her eyebrows a little higher and chuckles softly.

“Are you always this bubbly?”

“You’re avoiding the question.” I sigh exasperatedly.

“So are you.”

“I tend to be a pretty happy person, yes. Now you go.” I say, still smiling happily.

“Her name was Emily and she was my neighbour when I was 8 years old.” Beca is looking up towards the sky, her hand shielding the sunlight from her eyes.

“When did she die?” I ask softly, scooting a little closer to Beca. Beca turns her head towards me and raises her eyebrows _again._

“You really don’t know what the word ‘boundaries’ means, do you?” Beca asks, although it doesn’t sound like she particularly minds.

“And you really make that face a lot.” I retort. Beca smiles. _Actually_ smiles. Not some sarcastic smirk or indulgent chuckle. No, an actual smile that makes her look actually happy as opposed to the usual carelessness.

“She died when she was 10. I had just turned eleven.” Beca says after a few minutes of silence. “Cancer.” She adds when I don’t say anything.

“I-Uh—I’m sorry.” I say and place my hand over Beca’s. Beca looks down at our hands and smiles almost sadly.

“Well, it is what it is. We were only 10 anyway. We didn’t even know what love meant, really.” Beca says and I don’t answer except for a little squeeze of her hand.

“My mom died of cancer, too.” I say when we’ve both been silent for a while. Beca doesn’t say anything, but she turns her hand underneath mine so she can hold it and squeezes it. We sit there for a while, hands entwined. After a while Beca begins to tell me stories about her and Emily. Like the story about that one time they wanted to build a treehouse in Emily’s backyard so they’d smashed Beca’s yard furniture to bits  for wood. And every time Beca says something about Emily she smiles in this indulgent way that reminds me of my father when he would tell stories of my mother. And I realize that maybe I’m not lucky after all.

***

“So do you have one yet?” Aubrey asks one night, pretending to be nonchalant and laid-back. Like I—or anyone—would believe that Aubrey posen could be nonchalant and laid-back.

“One what?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know what she’s talking about.

“A mark.” Aubrey says like it’s the most logical thing possible.

“Of course I don’t.”  Aubrey seems surprised by this answer.

“Oh—Really? I just—I thought that you would have one now.” Aubrey says, looking completely taken aback. (Aubrey has already gotten a new one since the last time she cried in my bed, she still has hope for this one).

“Why would you think that?” I ask.

Aubrey doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

***

When one finally appears, red and clear and almost _begging_ to be looked at, I realize that it was only a matter of time anyway. Every single moment since the moment I met Beca Mitchell has been leading up to this. To this red mark on my arm that proves that I am in _love_ with Beca and she’s is obviously not in love with me. And to be honest I can’t really decide if that’s a good thing or not.

I don’t have to think about that very long, because when I wake up the next morning it’s black. Black and looking completely unnatural and out of place. But it’s there. And now I am sure. It’s not a good thing.

***

I cover it up. I wear long-sleeved shirts and I never roll up my sleeves and I send furtive glances at Beca’s arms. But she keeps them covered up, too.

It’s stupid, really. Because I’m in love with her and she’s in love with me and I have _proof_ that my feelings are reciprocated, but we still don’t talk about it. As a matter of fact, we don’t really talk at all.

I think maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe the universe and this _stupid_ system has made a mistake and Beca isn’t in love with me at all.

***

When Aubrey finds out she turns pale. She looks at the single black mark on my arm and then back at her own arm, covered in red ones. And back to mine. And back to hers. And I just stand there awkwardly in our tiny kitchen, silent and uncomfortable and I almost feel _guilty_.

“It’s not fair.” She says after a while.

“I know.” I say. Because it’s really not. It’s _really_ not fair and if I could I would track down every single boy that left his mark on Aubrey’s arm and I would threaten him and pummel him and do everything I possibly could until that red mark turned black, but I can’t. It’s not fair.

“You’re not even telling her.” Aubrey says after a few minutes and I can hear the upcoming tears in her voice. The raspy tone and the glossy eyes and the almost-hanging shoulders. It’s like seeing someone kick a puppy right in front of me. Repeatedly. With iron shoes.

“I’m not.” I admit, because what else am I supposed to say.

“It’s not fair.” She says again.

“Life’s not fair.” I say, even though it’s not going to make her feel better.

“No.” She agrees and then the shoulders are hanging all the way and the first tear makes his way down Aubrey’s cheek almost _painfully_ slow. And yeah—now I definitely feel guilty.

***

“You know you need to tell her.” Aubrey says later that same night.

“No, I don’t.” I say back, too loud for my dark bedroom. Like I’m trying to prove something.

“She thinks it’s for that Jesse kid.” Aubrey says and I look up at this. It’s so utterly and completely _stupid_. And it’s completely and utterly _Beca_. Who is so fucking emotionally stunted that she would honestly believe that the mark on her arm was for someone else she had no feelings for whatsoever.

“You think so?” I say, trying not to sound jealous.

“It’s why she wants to use that one song for finals.” Aubrey says. She’s always been better at noticing these things than me. I don’t say anything for a while. 

“I’m not telling her.” I say eventually. Resolutely.

“Not fair.” Is the last thing Aubrey says, almost angrily, before she climbs out of my bed and pads down to her own bedroom on the other side of our tiny apartment.

“Life’s not fair.” I yell at her.

Aubrey just slams her bedroom door in response.

***

It turns out Aubrey was right. Beca did indeed sing that song for Jesse and when she kisses him after our performance, I’m _almost_ tempted to go up to her and show her my arm. But Beca looks happy and Jesse looks at her with those large puppy-eyes.

“You’re right. It’s not fair.” I say to Aubrey later that night, bloodshot eyes and breath reeking of alcohol. We’re sitting in a bar, drinking ourselves into oblivion with cheap vodka.

“The whole system is fucked up.” I say when Aubrey doesn’t answer. Aubrey just hums and flags down the bartender. Aubrey wants to tell me that I could’ve prevented this. I can see it in her eyes, the ever-present _need_ to utter the words _I told you so._ But instead she just hands me another glass and smiles sadly at me.

“I know.” She says and squeezes my hand.

***

Beca hates running. So when Beca comes to my door two months after finals panting and huffing and completely out of breath and the first thing out of her mouth is,

“I’m sorry, I ran here.” My first instinct is to look around to make sure no one is chasing her. When I’m sure that my hallway is empty I pull Beca inside and situate her on the couch, where she tries desperately to catch her breath.

“I really need to work out.” She says after a while and I chuckle because I know that Beca would never work out voluntarily. When Beca doesn’t seem to plan on saying anything else, I speak up.

“So what was so urgent that you had to _run_ to my apartment?” I say, amused and only slightly making fun of Beca’s complete lack of physical fitness. Beca rolls her eyes at my tone before her facial features turn serious. She blows out a breath and looks around like she’s looking for a way to phrase what she’s about to say on my ceiling. After a few minutes she stands up and paces around before turning towards me.

“It’s you.” She says.

“Me? I’m so urgent that you had to _run—“_

 _“_ God, Chloe. Stop being a smartass, will you.” Beca interrupts, sounding only a little annoyed.

“Sorry. What do you mean it’s me?” I say and Beca looks at me with a completely exasperated look on her face.

“It’s you. The mark is for you. I was with—“

“Beca…” I interrupt, but before I can say anything else Beca is holding up her hands.

“No, wait. Just let me say this, okay? I’ve already fucked up so much of this because I didn’t just take the _time_ to think about my feelings. So let me just do this for a second, yeah?” Beca says, sounding tired and determined at the same time.

“Okay.”

“Okay. So I was with Jesse and all this time I thought that the black mark was for _him_. You know, because he liked me and I thought he was cool and I just—He really wanted to be with me. But then we got together and—and I figured that he had a black mark too, you know. But then like a month ago I found out that he didn’t. And I just told him it was just some kind of mistake in the system. But then today we were fighting because he said I wasn’t in love with him so I showed him the mark on my arm, like I’ve done a million times and he just—He said… He said ‘Beca, let’s just stop pretending like we don’t know who that mark is really for.’ And I realized that it’s you. It’s for you. And it’s not Jesse. And I was so caught up in him being in love with me that I didn’t even realize that you’re in love with me, too. And I’m in love with you.” Beca says seemingly all in one breath.

“That’s all.” She says when I don’t answer and all of a sudden she looks kind of lost. And then I smile, a small smile that turns into a bigger smile. Which turns into a huge smile and Beca smiles back kind of uncertainly. I get up from the couch and take a few steps until Beca and I are only a few inches apart.

“It’s me?” I whisper teasingly and Beca blushes a deep red and shoves me, looking at the ground.

“Shut up.” She mutters, looking at me with a fake-angry look on her face.

“Make me.” I whisper back, my heart beating way too loud and way too fast.

“Okay.” Beca whispers and just as I’m about to say something else, she does. Kissing Beca is unlike kissing anyone else. She’s not as eager as high school boys and not as hormonal as frat boys and she’s just perfect. As soon as she pulls away I open my eyes. Beca keeps her closed and a slow smile forms around her lips.

“Yeah.” She says.

“What?” I ask, still feeling a little light-headed from kissing Beca.

“It’s definitely you.” She says and opens her eyes just in time to see me smile before I kiss her again.


End file.
